


Nothing is all You Have

by doctor_jasley



Category: Bandom, Cobra Starship, Fall Out Boy, My Chemical Romance, Panic At The Disco
Genre: Drug Use, Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Main Character Death, Multi, Secondary character deaths, Violence, a suicide pact that is actualized, allusions to past suicide attempt, implied self harm(secondary character), one very short unharmful drugging scene, past drug abuse, perceived one-sided incest by an outside character, possible religious blasphemy, suicide ideology, virtual realities
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-04
Updated: 2012-09-04
Packaged: 2017-11-13 12:24:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,473
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/503519
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/doctor_jasley/pseuds/doctor_jasley
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Patrick was the neutron at the center of the atom. The tape holding them together.</p>
<p>Not just with Pete and Brendon. But Pete’s connection to everyone he considers close.</p>
<p>Patrick’s mom. Who was always a better parent to him than his own ever were.</p>
<p>Gabe, the guy Pete found in his quest to forget.</p>
<p>Mikey, the person Pete hid from Patrick with.</p>
<p>It always comes back to Patrick.  </p>
<p>Who isn’t here.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Nothing is all You Have

**Author's Note:**

> Written for BBB 2012 Wave Three
> 
> Bootson forever gets a millions hearts for betaing this. Camatie gets just as many hearts for being one of the best artists _evar_.
> 
> An extended A/N can be found [HERE](http://doctor-jasley.dreamwidth.org/80358.html).
> 
> Art: [two pieces](http://doctor-jasley.dreamwidth.org/80822.html) \- Camatie

Nothing is all You Have

_Stamp_

_Stamp_

_Stamp_

This is what it’s like when you die. There’s no joyful laughter. No warm embrace from friends and family long past. There’s nothing but Bureaucracy and Bullshit for as far as the eye can see.

_Beep_

_Beep_

_Beep_

The Japanese got that shit right with a few of their mangas and animes. The afterlife is red tape, paperwork, and filing systems too archaic to be any help when you have to find _anything_. Pete’s not officially dead yet, but he’s sure as fuck not living.

If you didn’t guess, he’s shoved in a tiny office doing government shit until the day he dies. Conscription of the covert decree. To say actual death would be a reprieve is an understatement. Adding _grievous_ to that would only make it more correct.

He hates his nine-to-five. It’s nothing but slogging through shit all day. Every day. The ones he works. Not his off days. His boss can screw a canary if he thinks Pete’s pulling off-duty homework hours.

His girlfriend. Wait, strike that. His _ex-_ girlfriend has packed up her shit and flown the coop. His apartment is sparse, again, after her sticky fingers plucked everything she could take as she swan-dived out of his life with more style than most divas gracing the cinema feeds.

The world is bland, a saltine unsalted and left to bake in the heat of normality.

Who wants a saltine cracker without salt anyway? That’s why they’re called _saltines_ in the first place.

It’s such utter bullshit.

Your parents whisper pretty, little ditties at you when you’re in diapers. Then, when you’re fourteen, fifteen -hell, maybe even at the tender age of ten- reality gets the phone call from the higher ups that you have _DREAMS_.

The crowd gasps and flaps their hands like frightened children. The children they’ve helped corrupt and corrode. Only they’re not frightened at all. Only appalled.

Don’t you know. Dreams are not allowed.

Nope.

Not at all.

The only happy endings are those you read in the obituaries. Lucky fucks who got the pleasure of checking out early. Or the cursed assholes who got stuck in traction for eighty or ninety years.

Pete’s thought about it.

Death.

Dying.

Has for years.

Who hasn’t?

It isn’t that he lacks conviction either. Follow-through, he has in spades. His weakness is friends who extract promises from his tongue like clouds soaking up moisture for rain.

Patrick’s more than that.

His promise is _more_ than that.

But he’s not here anymore. So fuck him. He gets no say in the matter.

Still.

A promise is a promise. Is a promise. There are few things a person has that they can control. Their reputation -their word- might just be the most important.

_Ring_

_Ring_

_Ring_

Stupid fucking phone shrills whenever it pleases. Pete picks up the call before holding down the disconnect button. He’s not a secretary. He doesn’t answer trite front desk questions. If his boss or anyone else needs him they email his account.

This isn’t a new process. Only the moron newbies get this shit wrong. They learn eventually. Or they quit.

Oh, look at the time.

Five O’ Clock.

Time for home.

To his cold wasteland of an apartment. The bare bones of a desiccated(devoured?) carcass. Maybe, tonight he’ll cover the bare, white walls with ink. Splash black letters across the blankness until color bleeds back into his life.

It’s unlikely to happen, but he’s tried worse.

Done worse.

ϴ

Bodies crash against each other. Music breaks as it approaches the shoreline of warm, slick flesh. Pete watches from a safe distance as the faces shift under the flashing lights, change marring the collective’s faces as emotions take root. Germinate. Bloom into fruition.

Rolling away the cold stone of impassivity the masses wear above, out in the open.

It’s like watching a church service. Praise God and His holy, good grace. Amen.

Drugs and punk rock: the sacrament and hymnals of the modern religion. The Quick Fix. It’s downright primitive(primal?). The tribal beat of a pounding drum. Not that the sheep see that.

Why would they?

Pete doesn’t deal in that trade any longer. The high wears off much too soon for his tastes. Has since Patrick moved away for a better life.

Since Patrick left for a chance to snatch a slice from the imaginary pie that is called _Happiness._

They still talk. Does the distance between their voices cheapen it?

Yes. Of course, it does. However, it’s better than nothing.

They also text, but pixelated letters are not the same as breath-born ones. Pete doesn’t begrudge Patrick for wanting the illusion that contentment is possible. He just wishes the naivety was catching.

But he’s been vaccinated by reality. Cured of the disease innocence and inoculated against future outbreaks.

ϴ

The virtual reality -vr for short- glasses are thin, black-as-night opaque shades. They weigh nothing in his hand when he picks them up. Pete didn’t know Gabe owned a pair.

“You can borrow them, mi mierda es tu mierda. Fuck, you can have them. There’s a new pair I’m eying. Gives me a buena reason to talk the street vendor’s price down.”

Pete sets the glasses down.

Picks them up again.

If booze, sex, drugs, and music barely affect his sad excuse of an existence, then what can virtual reality give him?

The short answer is _nothing_.

He sets the vr glasses back down.

Mikey used to swear by the pixels and code. Pete tried once. Was bored as fuck. So he signed out before his session was over with.

He didn’t want to quest for dragons or faeries. Who gives a shit about kidnapping fae princesses for gold ransoms?

Not him, apparently.

Mikey never pressed the issue. Pete never plugged back into the underground circuits; that one time was enough for him. He returned Mikey's spare pair of vr glasses. And that was that.

Pete makes a decision and sticks with it. No more fantasy bullshit for him, thanks.

He and Mikey didn’t weather the rocky seas of their relationship much longer after that. They remained friends but were no longer Pete and Mikey.

Mikey and Pete.

It was a hard adjustment to make. One that Pete almost didn’t survive. One that he didn’t _want_ to overcome. But Patrick’s promise sat heavily in his thoughts, and Pete allowed Mikey to extract a new promise from him.

More water for the clouds.

Another vow he’s kept over the years.

Another weight that’s tethering Pete to the ground.

Another piece of his soul carved out for others to partake in.

Pete leaves with the vr glasses tucked into his back pocket. Gabe’s a hard man to say _no_ to when he’s determined. Cheshire Cat grin firmly curling the corners of his mouth forever upward.

One more person Pete owes his word to.

ϴ

The glasses sit next to his computer for a week before Pete pops the micro SD card that comes with every pair into his computer.

ϴ

Legal virtual realities, a.k.a. the government sanctioned scenes, have no thrills to them. Think of bland hotel bars, neverending kooky musicals, endless beaches with no jellyfish washed ashore and no sharks cruising beneath the alluring waves of the tempestuous sea.

Joe Blow, Mister Everyday Man, has a long day at work. He comes home to his tired wife and screaming brats. Before bed he plugs in, and he’s the star of his own movie. The lead singer of a safe pop band.

Most people never terminate their sessions. Pete did when he was fifteen. When he was shown the first glimpses of truth.

His parents forced the state to reopen his account on his seventeenth birthday. After his first attempt at following through with his mental plans. After Patrick found him and stopped everything.

Good ol’ mommy and daddy thought prickly, brooding Pete could improve his emotional balance with self-actualizing sessions. It was all bullshit. Pete bribed Gabe to hack his profile and alter the hour tracker.

His sessions were mandatory until he graduated. That is, they were supposed to be. His parents didn’t know the difference once Pete started popping uppers, anyway.

All this is to say, the approved shit is boring as hell. However, Pete hates to actually label the sanitized scenes _boring_ because it’s a fucking insult to the word.

There should be a new term thought up just to label the rubbish the powerful people churn out for the masses to ingest for their addiction to passivity.

Maybe something like. Borubictivity.

It has a ring to it, doesn’t it? Much better than lvr(legal virtual reality) and boring shit virtual reality.

Just smush boring, rubbish, addiction, and passivity together. Bam new word. People love word smushes. The gossip rags would want to trademark that shit. Pete would tell them _no_. Let the masses have control of the word.

It was for them. 

Let them keep it.

ϴ

_Tick_

_Tick_

_Tick_

The noise follows Pete home. It’s as if some giant clock monster has decided to worm into the fabric of his work clothes. It’s that or Pete’s somehow become James Hook, and the crocodile is stalking him for dinner.

That option wouldn’t be too bad. Would be bloody, but worth it. However, fantasy isn’t his gig so he’s shit out of luck there.

The sound hangs in the air around him as he putters around his still mostly-barren apartment. Pete hears it every step he takes.

_Tick_

_Tick_

_Tick_

Fuck, he doesn’t even own a damn clock. Pete hates the way the faces always mock him. The way they never cease to tease. The way they torture him.

The _ticks_ cling to his skin and crawl into his ears while he eats bland bites of sandwich bread and cheap-ass sandwich meat. Pete stands, scoops up the rest of his meal, strides to his trash can, and delivers his sacrifice to the altar of wastefulness.

His trash can deserves a new offering. He hasn’t been very devout. Not lately.

His phone buzzes in his pocket -enthusiastically smothering the ticking sound- as Pete watches a hunk of lettuce slide slowly down the side of the mayo-covered bread slice. Patrick texts more often lately. Pete thinks he’s found happiness.

Found it and uncovered the truth.

That happiness is actually emptiness wrapped in hopelessness.

Another patient now under the care of Doctor Cynical and Nurse Time.

Not that Patrick says shit like that. It’s not his style. Pete doesn’t call him on his bullshit. Lord knows, Pete fell hard when the harsh truth of reality baptized him for the first time.

He almost drowned.

Pete was okay with that.

Patrick, not so much.

The Church of the Quick Fix became Pete’s sanctuary for years after that. 

Until it stopped working. Was bound to happen. Nothing good ever lasts.

ϴ

**J q 7 2 G v 8 a T 1 s**

The code stares up at Pete. He stares down at it. The handwritten code is cold and lifeless looking. The key that unlocks cursed tombs.

Mikey handed over the strip of paper during lunch.

They meet once a week to catch up on shit. Pretend to be normal ignorant fools when neither of them are.

It’s kinda hard for an Apostle of the Quick Fix and a Priest of Reality to be ignorant.

All Pete did, was mention he was giving virtual reality - the church- a second go and the government-sanctioned environmental selections were shit.

Mikey stays hooked up in the underground. When the drugs and the music don’t drag him under the fluffy wings of Bliss. Don’t make him feel. He plugs in and pretends until his time is up.

It means he has ways of getting Pete into the harder vr environs.

Long story shortened, Mikey has the key. Or the code, as it is, for the literalists out there.

Pete could have gone to Gabe.

But Mikey’s been into illegal vr since high school. Gabe dabbles. It’s what he does. He samples before moving on. The happy nomad ready for a new destination on the world map.

Just like that.

No mourning. No loss.

It isn’t as easy for people like Pete or Mikey.

ϴ

Pete doesn’t know why he suddenly wants to give the underground vr environs a second go. Maybe with age he’s changed. Maybe he’s just at the end of his rope again and grasping at straws.

The next stage is committing himself to the crazy house. Anything short of that and he’s going to crack.

His word keeps him rooted. Yearning for the sky.

ϴ

There’s nothing but blurry smears of gunmetal grey stretching on forever. It’s already leagues superior to the happy splashes of the sterilized environs and the bald blankness of reality.

“Request accepted. Welcome to Crystine City. Please wait while we scan your preferences.”

The modulated female voice is calm, collected.

Pete sighs in relief. He doesn’t know what awaits beyond this first step, however, he’s already excited. The emotion is foreign. Like finding sand in the Antarctic. He hasn’t felt this. Fuck, he hasn’t felt much of _anything_ in years. 

He hasn’t lived for the quick fix in _ages_.

But

he’s already

Mellowing out.

ϴ

Rain

_drips_

_drips_

_drips_

before it pours. The bottom falling out to flood the world.

ϴ

Darkness nips at the puddles of light stagnating under the trunks of street light poles. Crystine City is density, heft, weight. It’s everything reality is not. Hard, cold, jagged with no superficiality masking the truth.

There’s no cartilage or tissue to cushion the joints from friction, from harm.

It’s an urban jungle. No foliage in sight. Populated by human monsters. Men and women who don’t get the chance to be the Big Bad Wolf in real life who are suddenly given the power to wreak havoc in a virtual environment while wearing masks. The ultimate anonymity.

Pete patrols nightly when he’s plugged in. Another costume thrown into the mix. More ink dripped into the brimming well.

Ink stains.

It leaves a mark, something of substance, behind.

A footnote that says.

_I was here_.

ϴ

_Clink_

_Clink_

_Clink_

Pete loathes washing dishes. It’s a routine he’s yet to shake. The bad habit he just can’t break.

Chores are the shackles of conformity. However, rebellion proves nothing. Only pushes the progress back. Stalls the inevitable.

He rinses out a glass. The white, soapy foam washes down the drain. Putting up no fight.

And isn’t that just the perfect metaphor for life. We’re nothing more than a few, weak soap bubbles being diluted by nature’s lifeblood before swirling into nothingness.

ϴ

He spends more and more nights in Crystine City than he should. A Priest of Reality shouldn’t be assessing the Church of the Quick Fix.

What the fucking hell is Pete doing?

The easy answer.

Pretending.

The harder one.

He doesn’t have a damn clue.

ϴ

“Gee and I haven’t seen you around Mosaic.”

Mikey and outward emotion rarely converse with each other. Pete’s positive they came to a mutual understanding years ago.

Mikey’s expressions, verbal and physical, can slack on the job, and he’s graced with the best deadpan voice or poker face anyone’s ever heard or seen.

It’s an even trade.

Pete was never offered the same terms.

He still catches the tiny tells. The things not even Mikey can hide or pretend not to show.

Worry.

Loneliness.

Unwarranted jealousy.

Pete’s not running or tripping with Mikey. Mikey hates that. It makes him nervous for what Pete might do while alone.

“A more modern twist doesn’t hide the fairy dust and fantasy elements. You know me better than that, Mikey Way. I don’t dragon quest for anyone.”

Mikey _should_ know Pete inside and out. They deconstructed each other daily while they were together. It was mutual. Consensual.

Used to turn Pete on.

Just

like

that.

When Mikey wasn’t pushing the lines of too far. Pressing Pete to break his own rules.

But that’s the past. Rosey and singing of brighter days.

“Ray says you’re not plugged into Swell. And Frank hasn’t seen you on Brash Street.”

Mikey and fishing have never meshed well together. He’s not a sporty-sport participant. Let alone a practitioner of throwing a line out into a pond, river, or lake in the hopes of catching a living, breathing prize.

Not even the apostles enjoy poking behind the heavyass curtain. Pete’s never had that problem.

He likes knowing.

He likes others knowing. One doesn’t become a peddler of truth, reality, by shutting up and staying silent.

The difference between Mikey and Patrick has always been stubbornness. Patrick never believes until he sees, feels, hears. Mikey, like most four-year-olds and their faith in Santa, believes until he sees, feels, hears differently.

“Clicked the wrong reality link. Got accepted before I could decline. Got hooked. Don’t tell me you haven’t heard that one before.”

Mikey nods. It’s his _yeah, yeah, quit stalling, and tell me where you are so I can keep tabs on you_ nod. Pete has all of Mikey’s nods memorized, as well as all of Patrick’s mannerisms.

Lot of good that last one does him.

“Before your head disconnects from your neck and rolls down your arm, I’m running Crystine City, most nights.”

Most nights means every night. Pete isn’t up for hunting down a second code for a new invitation.

Once again, Mikey’s outward emotional investment fails to initiate. Pete catches the millisecond of shock before Mikey recovers and masks the feeling easily.

“Thought fantasy wasn’t your thing.”

Pete shrugs and spears a tomato with his fork. It’s lunch time. They should be eating.

“Anti-heroes and super-villains aren’t high fantasy like fucking night elves.”

Mikey takes a drink of his water, swallows, says “people get jacked in there.”

People get jacked everywhere.

Pete chews, swallows, shrugs again. “Not running alone. Most nights patrolling includes two superheroes. Like the real deal, old-school Holyfield. Don’t think I’m going to get jacked. But if I do. Well, it’s not like I’m leaving much behind.”

Mikey’s fingers tighten around his glass. A tiny action their waitress would never be able to track. Besides Pete, Gerard -Mikey’s older brother- is the only person capable of a full body language translation.

“Pete....”

“I’m not suicidal.”

Pete promised.

His word is GOOD.

It’s golden.

ϴ

_Jacked_ is what the plugins call the dead cases. The people stupid or desperate enough to trap their consciousness inside the vr environs before being dropped back into reality.

Pete’s mentally dubbed them creative suicides.

Sometimes, they die instantly. Heart attacks, strokes, aneurysms. Other times, they slip into a coma and never wake.

The spit-on definition of a human vegetable.

He’s never fully understood the logistics, but the general idea is that the brain forms an attachment to the false reality until no other reality is acceptable. It’s not uncommon for the consciousness’ freed of their mortal shell to roam openly in the vr environ after such an event.

They become part of the collective. The CPU. Or haunt certain areas or objects as lone ghosts.

Why do you think the government only sanctions the boring, complacent, greedy, id-inducing, petty fantasies? It’s sure as fuck not for the hell of it. Nor is it out of the goodness of their own hearts.

No.

They want the populace, their subjects, docile and dim-witted.

Oh, the better to control you all with, my dears.

We might as well be ruled by kings, again, considering the state of the government.

Places like Crystine City are illegally ran. Supported and distributed by the underground, just beyond the reach of the fat cats sitting in power. 

But that’s all beside the point. The point is, being jacked is considered bad news by most of society. By the men and women who know what jacked means.

Because, simply put, it’s a death sentence.

Pete doesn’t see it that way.

We all die.

Can something truly be called death when the mind is considered intact. Only divorced from the physical body and unable to process future memories?

It sounds like bliss. A purpose, a place, and a promise of a permanent home. No religion can offer that, physically. But getting jacked can.

Why knock natural progress?

ϴ

The thing about Crystine City. You get hurt. You fight back. There are no societal chains holding you back.

Pete finds it the best damn trip he’s had in ages. There’s a reason he’s in the anti-hero class. They have mobility and access by playing both sides of the board.

It’s a statistically sound position to be in.

The villains have to tread lightly after their first big splash. The superheroes have the same problem. Virtual reality imitating real life. In a fictionalized wish-fulfilment way, of course.

Do something well. Do it until you die. Run it into the ground.

ϴ

Pete lied to Mikey. He doesn’t run with others most nights.

ϴ

Shift swings his feet.

_Thump_

_Thump_

_Thump_

_Thump_

They collide with the brick solidly. The sound is warm, soft. Different from the real world.

“Your tag sign’s been dancing lately. CB’s pissed.”

Shift slides off of the roof edge smoothly. An inventor’s parlor trick.

_Now you see me. Now you don’t._

ϴ

Pete didn’t lie to Mikey. There are two superheroes who run with him.

ϴ

CB’s mouth turns downward. The frown is heavy. Pete’s reminded of hammers, wrenches, shovels.

“You’re going to get yourself killed pulling risky jobs, Ink.”

Pete imagines CB as a fiery redhead in reality.

“What really dies in our imaginations?”

CB paces. Silent with his words but not his body language. His emotions are dark. Worn as razors adorning his costume.

Pete’s calm. “Dying here is only a reset.”

In Crystine City, he’s Mikey. Divorced from his emotional attachments.

CB fumes. “Doesn’t mean you should court death.”

Maybe CB’s a brunette.

In the seven months Pete’s been plugged in, he’s never seen more of CB’s face than his nose and mouth

Not that it matters.

Crystine City is not reality.

“Why not?”

Pete’s cool. He’s stone here.

CB hates it. Cold quickly seeps past Pete’s suit as he’s slammed against the side of the roof entrance.

CB’s heat. He’s lava here.

This isn’t the first time they fuck roughly. Won’t be the last.

“Innocence.”

Shift swings his feet above their heads.

_Thunk_

_Thunk_

_Thunk_

_Thunk_

Pete tugs on the bottom half of his suit. Leaves his mask at half-mast. The leather sticks to his sweaty skin. Sand grit clinging to wet skin. The detail is sharp.

Sometimes, it’s hard as fuck remembering. This is fake. It’s all an illusion.

CB straightens his trucker hat over his half mask. Shift drops from the top of the roof entrance. His green hair ruffles in the night breeze, falling over his giant-ass goggles.

“You asked what dies in our imaginations. Innocence.” Shift smiles brightly.

The smart child victoriously clutching the cookie jar to his tiny chest.

If Pete is stone, and CB fire. Shift is air. Mercurial. Cutting and sharp. Smooth and soft. The balance between everything.

The kiss -when it comes- is warm, calmer than CB’s earlier actions. Pete wonders how tall Shift is on the outside.

In Crystine City, he’s their height but there are times he stretches skyward for no reason. Fuck, Pete’s taller in here. He notices the signs.

“I was never innocent.” Pete breathes the words against Shift’s lips.

Shift laughs. “Sure, Ink.”

_Whatever you say._

Like he doesn’t believe. Like he’s exempt.

ϴ

_Plink_

_Plink_

_Plink_

It’s raining outside. The noise is annoying. Pete shoves fingers through his hair. His neck bitches when he turns to stare at his bedroom window.

He shouldn’t sleep at his computer desk after sessions. Fuck that. Pete relishes the pain.

It’s the only taste of Crystine City that follows him home. The vicious puppy biting his fingers off.

ϴ

Sessions are the allotted hours for vr environs. The underground gets you access to the hidden alcoves. However, it can’t change the structure of the process itself.

Sure, it delivers the better goods. But only during the timeframe allowed.

Pete’s heard of people cheating the system for more time. Not a single one of them ever left. Eventually.

They all got themselves jacked. Which, think about it. Was actually the point. The shining goal. The golden treasure chest buried under the blocky **X**

ϴ

The rain doesn’t stop.

A week of the flood that fails to drown the world. Drown him. Pete’s disappointed.

_Knock_

_Knock_

_Knock_

No one visits. Pete finds people. Not the other way around. At least, not here.

He opens his front door without checking the peep hole. It’s not living dangerously if he doesn’t give a fuck.

Patrick hikes up the strap of his travel bag. He’s wet and unhappy, glaring at Pete when Pete stares at him silently.

“You said I could stay, jackass. Fucking move.”

Oh right. Pete forgot what day Patrick was getting in. The text is saved on his phone. Didn’t keep him from forgetting.

ϴ

A week passes.

ϴ

Patrick comes and goes as he pleases. Pete’s spare room becomes his again.

_As it once was. Let it again be._

Pete works. He eats. He visits Gabe and Mikey. Nothing changes.

Except it does.

ϴ

Crystine City is a constant. The filth never washes away.

Shift pulls an unconscious guy out of an ink puddle so he doesn’t drown. “CB’s going to have a fit.”

Pete bends and wipes his gloves off on the guy’s soiled shirt. He straightens. Pushes Shift against the nearby brick.

“You gonna sing to him?”

Shift smiles wickedly. “Now, why would I do _that_?”

ϴ

The scoop on CB and Shift is that they’ve been partners for two and a half years. Forever in a virtual landscape of constant betrayal and double-crosses. Even longer than that if you know how long Crystine City’s been operating outside of beta testing.

A little over three and a half years.

They’ve been fucking for a little over two years. Exclusively. Until Pete, Ink, came along.

They’ve never met in reality. Shift says they will soon. CB is away visiting family. His return route will take him near Shift.

ϴ

With Patrick in his life again, Pete’s apartment is living once more. The entertainment feed plays when he gets in. Music filters from under Patrick’s locked door.

Extra furniture finds its way into his space. Pete doesn’t mind. Patrick’s always needed more, deserved _more_ than Pete.

It’s okay.

It’s right.

ϴ

Three weeks after Patrick shows up, Pete comes home from work to the sound of foreign laughter. A thin guy in a lavender hoodie is sitting on his couch next to Patrick. Brown hair falls messily into his eyes when he turns to smile happily at Pete.

“Hi, I’m Brendon. Patrick said he lives with his best friend. You’re Pete.”

There’s no question. Only Statements. Facts.

Pete grits his teeth and shakes Brendon’s offered hand.

ϴ

Pete wants to hate Brendon.

He _really_ does.

He can’t.

ϴ

The thing about Brendon is he’s an ex-Faith Junkie. Not a born-again Molly Modest. No. He’s the real thing. An honest-to-God, born into the addiction sap. Breast-fed on the _’Jesus is good’_ milk.

He’s been off the wagon since high school.

Seven years.

No relapses.

ϴ

“Reality is fluid. Not rigid.” Brendon’s fingers tap against his glass.

Staccato. Beat. Offbeat. Beat again.

Everything about him is expressive. The complete opposite of Mikey. The lighter side of Patrick’s normal hot-headed default. It’s fitting then that Brendon’s become fast friends with Gabe.

Late afternoon sunlight halos him in yellow. Pete drinks his coffee and pretends not to notice.

“Society forces all of us into the _same_ submissive position. Where’s the fluidity there?”

Brendon tilts his head. Taps his fingers more. Thinks. Taps. Thinks.

“We can be whatever we want. Our options are limitless if we’re smart, strong, and try. The only thing rigid, Pete, is your worldview.”

Like Patrick, Brendon calls Bullshit on Pete regularly.

Doesn’t matter.

Pete still knows the truth.

ϴ

Two months and Brendon’s firmly burrowed his way into Patrick’s life. Pete’s life. Like he’s always been there. Always been needed.

Sixty-one days. That’s all it takes.

ϴ

Cupcake Girl throws Pete through a wall. Okay. She tries. Pete closes his eyes and lets himself slide down the stone instead.

ϴ

Unlike the other vr scenes, Cyrstine City doesn’t let you consciously choose your alignment or ability. You’re assessed when you first plug in. Assigned traits and looks that complement your mental standards. Then you’re given a title

Hero.

Anti-hero.

Villain.

The rest is up to you. Beyond the sky literally being the only limit.

ϴ

There’s a new villain. His name is the Matchstick Man. His gift is mind-control.

Cupcake girl was his first conquest. Supposedly felled when a glitch stalled her actions.

Many more heroes and anti-heroes alike will fall before he does.

CB is righteous anger. Shift is dawning, grim determination. Pete enjoys himself immensely. Wishes he could bleed more hours from his sessions.

He can’t.

His promises weigh him down.

They hinder his follow-through.

ϴ

“How’s Patrick, pendejo.” Gabe tosses a striped billiards ball in the air. He catches it, deftly.

Pete shrugs. Like fuck if he knows.

Patrick comes and goes as he pleases. That’s already been proven in spades.

“I’m not his fucking keeper, Gabe. He’s probably with Brendon. Call him if you want to know.”

If Pete has lunch with Mikey, he has to visit with Gabe for supper. If he doesn’t, Gabe bitches.

This week, Gabe fancies himself a pool player. He’s terrible. Pete’s only moderately better.

It’s nothing to brag about. Doesn’t shut Pete’s mouth.

“You suck at this, fucker.”

Gabe laughs. Doesn’t take offence. He never does.

The life of a dabbler must be grand.

“I got suave moves, dude, you’re just blind. Still plugging in?”

Gabe’s voice pitches down into a frown. Not his mouth. He doesn’t hitch a ride on the negative emotion train. Only mirth and wicked glee are allowed on his face. Clothing his limbs.

He doesn’t believe in acting low. But he’s as worried as Mikey is. Hides it better, though.

He’s the guy who opened the gate for Pete. So he wants to know. Knowing is good. It gives you power.

Mikey asks questions often. But it’s not for knowledge’s sake.

If Gabe’s the gatekeeper, then Mikey’s the person who gave Pete the keys to the vast estate just past the gate. Patrick and Brendon are the unstoppable force propelling Pete forward. 

What? Sometimes, Pete lies to himself. Not that he needs to.

He does whatever he wants. Save for certain rules and promises.

Certain rules that he breaks in Crystine City, regularly. 

CB and Shift are the enticements. The golden coins shining in the sun, sitting at the finish line.

Pete knows he could talk them into staying with him there. Permanently. Maybe. CB would be the tough one to convince.

Pete doesn’t try.

That’s the promises barging into the equation. The stupid fucking pride that keeps him silent.

ϴ

Teal Tina is next to fall.

She’s a second-rate villain. Pete never had issue with her. Neither did Shift or CB, for all he knows.

The Matchstick Man, with Cupcake Girl’s assistance, presses TT under the spell of compliance.

She folds like fresh laundry. Never standing a chance.

ϴ

You wouldn’t guess it now, but there was a time when Cupcake Girl was an unbreakable hero. Her golden hair a symbol of goodness. She stood up against the muck. Took hits. Brought the wicked to justice.

Pete once helped her defeat Frederick Fright for a price. Strike that. Ink helped her.

No one here knows his real name.

Ink virtually broke his arm during that fight. Distraction keeping Pete from alt-ing into ink form quick enough to prevent injury. The environ gave him a week handicap before Ink was considered healed. Proper use of his arm allowed again.

CB had seethed while Shift distracted them both.

If anyone deserves Pete’s name, it would be them. But they’ve kept theirs from him. Not each other.

Pete stays silent because of that. Imagines they’re long-distance boyfriends outside of Crystine City by now. Phone calls and texts that exclude him.

He’s lost the point. Which is, Pete doesn’t know who Cupcake Girl is. Has no way of knowing what this means for her.

How does mind-control translate in reality?

Shift has an idea. He knows _something_. He’s not talking. Silent and hell-bent on bringing the Matchstick Man down any way possible.

Pete’s left in the dark. He hates that. The not knowing.

Some shit never changes.

ϴ

_‘oh’_

_‘oh’_

_‘oh’_

It’s not even three a.m.. Pete pops his neck. Stretches in his desk chair.

He has work later. Bright and early. He shouldn’t push his daily session limits the way he has lately.

His bed and sleep are the logical, responsible choices.

_‘Fuck’_

_‘God’_

_‘Fuck’_

bleeds through the wall, softly. Lighter than the thumps of the headboard in Patrick’s room.

Brendon stayed over tonight. Tattered messenger bag hitting his hip heavily as he strode into Pete’s apartment hours ago. A loop track laid over itself seven times.

He’s been over every night this week. Pete predicts he’ll still be here next week. And the week after that. So on and so forth.

Something’s going on that Patrick won’t talk about. Something Brendon deflects like a pro.

It’s driving Pete crazy.

They should be exhausted. Pete’s heard them every night when he buoys upward and away from Crystine City. Seven days straight of fucking. Or something sexual. Whatever. They’re being vocal.

That’s all Pete knows.

He’s not sure how much more he can take before he cracks in time with Patrick’s headboard.

Pete slips his hand past the waistband of his sweats and falls in with the rhythm Patrick’s keeping. Maybe it’s wrong jerking off to Patrick and Brendon.

Pete doesn’t see it that way, but he can guess why others might. Guilt jumped ship _Wentz_ long before Patrick left Pete’s life that first time.

He doesn’t imagine it’ll be swimming back to him anytime soon.

Which is fine.

Pete doesn’t miss it that much.

ϴ

Brendon’s in the kitchen stretching to reach the cereal bowls when Pete walks in. Brendon’s back is turned away, pajama bottoms resting low on his hips. Pete gets a front row seat observing the bruises and scratches -old and new, faded and bright- adorning his skin.

Pete wants to press his fingers to the smudges. Slide his nails down the red welts. He wants to see if his marks would match Patrick’s.

He knows they won’t.

Pete still wants to try.

This time, it’s not a promise that stays his hand. No. It’s his own personal lines. Rules. That hold him back.

ϴ

A thing about Pete. He’s been in love with Patrick since the stars were birthed and the universe hung them in the galaxies, bright beacons meant to be seen.

That’s a lie. An impossibility.

It has just always felt that way.

When Pete couldn’t have what he wanted. Mikey filled the void.

One might think Pete used Mikey, but the convenience was mutual. Pete’s sure he’s stated this fact before. Whatever. Memories are fickle.

Another fact for the trivia-lovers: Mikey couldn’t have what he wanted, either. So they fell against each other.

The difference between Pete and Mikey. Mikey jumped over his hurdles. Pete didn’t. Couldn’t. Wouldn’t.

Can’t.

Mikey never mentioned who he wanted. The unattainable goal. His Helen of Troy, who became the attainable. Mikey, the Paris who played his hand smartly. Not stupidly.

No Greek(Macedonian?) fleet on the horizon.

Which Pete wagers makes him Cassandra. Only he’s not a castoff of Apollo’s. Nor does he plan on becoming the spoils of war and murdered by a jealous wife.

It helps that his word is believable. Solid.

What’s even better?

Pete’s not completely clueless. He notices things, obviously. Mikey might never utter a single syllable pronouncing his love to the clouds. He doesn’t have to. Pete already knows. Or fancies that he does.

He doesn’t ask for validation. Doesn’t have proof. So he sews his lips shut and doesn’t say a fucking word. Doesn’t damn a friend for frivolous reasons.

ϴ

“We shouldn’t be having a stability issue. Fuck, Dallon...I know. Okay....I do. I’m working on the bugs. Give me time.”

Brendon slams his phone against his thigh. Doesn’t even wince or cringe as he reaches for his ea(electronic assistant). Pete’s seen the damn thing a lot lately. If Brendon’s not locked away in Patrick’s bedroom or working in his office, he’s wandering Pete’s apartment like some malevolent ghost. His ea firmly held in one hand, stylus gripped tightly in the other as he curses Percival -shortened to Perce- for whatever it is that’s fucking up.

Pete finds it comical Brendon names his electronics. Pretends to give them humanity when they don’t need the fallacy. Pete doesn’t do that shit. His computer is, well, you guessed it, computer. Yadda, yadda, yadda. Rinse. Repeat.

Brendon explained why he names shit weeks back, when he and Patrick found a way to drag Pete out of his apartment so they could go out together. The three of them.

The explanation devolved into a history lesson that Pete got lost in. Something about Knights and Feudalism. Piety and the Laity.

To be honest, he’d checked out the moment Brendon’s mouth formed the word _knight_. Pete and fantasy don’t go together, remember.

All he, eventually, took from the conversation boils down to this. The non-churchy people living a long fucking time ago. The guys who wielded swords and shit. They would name their weapons and fight in God’s holy name.

Amen.

After the lecture, and Patrick going outside to get away from them for a few minutes, Pete had quirked an eyebrow and said “I wonder, why would an ex-Faith Junkie still buy into the lie?”

Brendon had laughed.

He always laughs. Like Gabe. The difference between Gabe and Brendon is emotional conviction. Gabe’s jaded and uses positive emotions to carry him through the day. Brendon’s just an optimist.

_Smile if, and when, you mean it._

Brendon always means it.

Pete thought optimists were mythical, like unicorns and shit. He’s not a fan.

Another understatement.

Still doesn’t help Pete in the hating Brendon department. He’s given up the ghost there.

Once the laughter had evaporated, Brendon had smiled.

“Why would a Yes Man of the Harsh Truths of Reality still worship at the altar of the Quick and Easy Fix? Because old habits never die, not really.”

Ain’t that the truth.

But that’s the past. Not the present.

Pete leans against his living room wall and watches Brendon work on his ea while sitting on the lumpy couch. There’s a picture of _something_ behind Pete. Courtesy of Patrick. A corner jabs into his shoulder. Pete ignores it.

“The fictional worlds of candy-coated bullshit above and below the sea being a bitch?”

Brendon chuckles darkly. Shifts so he can look at Pete.

“You could say that. Some asshole working on a different team introduced an update to their parent environ to get a pat on the back, and the code keeps leaking into other realities. It’s been slowly corrupting shit and setting off compounding glitches everywhere. Some of the resulting issues make no damn sense.”

ϴ

Brendon’s a techie.

If Pete thinks his job is Hell.

-He’s a government stooge who scans classified documents and edits them. Tells the public what they should or shouldn’t know. He’s earned the right to call himself a stooge and his occupation a place of fire and brimstone.-

Then Patrick’s is Purgatory just from his bored descriptions during supper some nights. Being an office supervisor for morons is nothing more than repetition and steely, commanding words.

Process of elimination would suggest this means Brendon’s job should be comparable to Heaven. Nirvana. Bliss.

It must if you love your occupation, right? And Brendon loves his job. Just ask him. He’ll ramble for hours about virtual environs and all the shit that goes into upkeep. Into construction.

One night, when Brendon was over for supper, before he started living in Patrick’s bedroom, Pete asked just that.

They were eating pasta. Something spicy Pete couldn’t remember the name of. Something Brendon threw together thirty minutes after stepping into Pete’s kitchen. Pasta that was the farthest thing from bland as possible.

What Pete said went something like this.

“So, we already know how shitty government Hell was and how lovely boring corporate Purgatory was. How was a day in the life of someone who works in virtual Heaven?”

Brendon took a swallow of his water and shook his head. Thin strands of fondness slipped into his voice when he spoke.

“I wouldn’t call it _Heaven_. Virtual or not. You have to believe for that shit. It was just another day at the office.”

Pete scoffed, and Patrick rolled his eyes at them.

“If it’s not Heaven, you have to compare it to _something_.”

Pete wanted to know.

He always does.

Brendon chuckled, set his glass down, and spread his hands out. Stretched wide like Jesus talking to his disciples.

Jesus nailed to the cross.

“Code, programing, and everything else, is like the desert and the ocean mixed together. One moment, you’re dying of heat stroke; the next, you’re drowning in freezing water you can’t drink because of the salt content. It’s breathtaking. Heady. Exhilarating. But also dangerous.”

And that was that. Question answered. Nothing more to see here.

ϴ

Pete is Hell.

Patrick is Purgatory.

Brendon is nature(Earth).

None of them are searching for(seeking?) Heaven.

Seems fitting.

ϴ

The routine settles as this.

In Crystine City:

Ink, CB, and Shift are together. Ink keeps his mouth shut about reality. About real names and addresses.

Pete wants to ask. To know.

He doesn’t because they have business to deal with. Business being the Matchstick Man and his growing ranks.

Fucker’s recruitment posters must be the shit. His numbers keep expanding.

In reality:

Very little changes. Pete’s somehow been integrated into Patrick and Brendon’s relationship without realizing it. Patrick has been known to resort to underhanded tactics to get what he wants. Pete should have expected this strategy move. He didn’t.

ϴ

Of all the people in the world, Pete fell head-over-heels in love with his best friend. Don’t let the assholes and creeps jade you. Love at first sight does exist. It’s just a smarmy bitch who loves her conflict and drama.

The one and only time, Pete’s ever failed to follow through began and ended with Patrick. Because his best fucking friend is stubborn as fuck, smart, and deep down under the glares -the anger- a genuinely good person.

He couldn’t let Pete go.

Pete couldn’t let go of that knowledge.

They never had a fucking chance. The odds firmly stacked against them. Eventually, Patrick got angry enough to leave. Pete loves to tell himself it was because Patrick wanted a better life. He just wanted someone who wouldn’t lie to themselves.

The thing about Patrick is. He learns from his mistakes. In Patrick-thought, building a two-person relationship around Pete means that Pete can’t back away. Can’t hide.

All exits are blocked. No way out.

He’s just waiting for Pete to give. To raise the white flag in surrender.

How the fuck Patrick found Brendon. Mister Sunny. Who’s fucking _fine_ with this arrangement. Is a damn mystery. 

Pete wants to seethe. Finds he can’t muster the energy to care anymore. That doesn’t mean he’s defeated quite yet.

ϴ

Pete knows it’s weird. His not- _not_ relationship. Hell, everyone knows it’s weird as fuck. Except for Brendon and Patrick.

The jury’s still out on whether Brendon’s completely in on the battle plan or just oblivious. Pete sure as fuck knows which side of the fence Patrick falls behind.

Devious and in the know.

Mikey mentions it at lunch. All accusing language coupled with a zen _it’s all good_ delivery.

“Are you sleeping with them?”

Mikey doesn’t elaborate. He knows Pete regularly gets virtually laid. Finds it fucking hilarious. Keeps offering to bring Gerard along for one of their _dates_ so Gerard can analyze Pete.

Tell him what his issues are.

Like Pete doesn’t fucking know what those are already.

What Mikey wants is an answer to this: _are you fucking Patrick and Brendon?_

The thread of jealousy is silent. Lurking just under the surface. With Mikey, Pete did shit, lots of shit, but there were always rules. Shit Pete wouldn’t do. Shit he still won’t.

He doesn’t do gay- _gay_.

Kissing is a go. The French do that crap daily.

Fucking is fine.

Being fucked. Not going to happen.

Being blown by a dude. Only if the guy looks feminine.

Blowing a dude. Not an option.

Handjobs. See above about blowjobs.

Pete and dick don’t go steady. He doesn’t touch, unless it’s his own.

Used to fucking piss Mikey off, royally. Pete never objected to the anger. Mikey had every right to be mad. Was never enough to change the rules, though.

It’s why Pete’s virtual relationship has Mikey laughing. It’s not a happy sound. Apparently, virtual dick isn’t Mikey’s dick, so it’s okay. Pisses Mikey off. Just like old times.

That’s not how it works. But Mikey’s always blamed Pete for lots of shit. For why they decided to be friends instead of lovers. For why he(Pete) almost ODed. A million other slights and disasters. Insert-grievance-here type shit.

Pete doesn’t place blame like Mikey does. Reality is vicious. Nothing good ever survives.

But if anyone were to ask him -which will never happen- Pete would tell them _yeah, my issues ruined shit. But Mikey’s obsession with his brother didn’t help any._

Leave it at that.

Everyone -including the blind- can see just how fucking codependent the Way siblings are. 

Pete flags down their waitress for his bill.

“Mikey Way, you’re jealous for no damn reason. Patrick doesn’t need me fucking up his shit.”

ϴ

For a month the tension in the coils slackens. The figurative rain morphs from a steady drip to more of a light drizzle. Bright, cloudless skies on the horizon.

ϴ

Nothing good lasts forever. Pete forgot. He always forgets.

You’d think he wouldn’t.

ϴ

Pete comes home from work in a decent mood. It’s unheard of. He’s never anything more than

sour,

dour,

down.

The night before, he, Patrick, and Brendon went out. Saw a movie. Bitched about the shitty plot. Nothing else happened. Pete fell asleep in his bed to silence.

Brendon even powered down Perce during their outing. Pete was impressed.

However, that was yesterday. This is today.

He finds Patrick and Brendon in the kitchen. Brendon on his knees. Patrick’s fingers tangled in his hair.

Pete freezes. 

Patrick looks up from staring down at Brendon. He locks eyes with Pete. Mouths _it’s okay_ and _come here_ at him.

Pete unsticks his feet and walks away. They haven’t talked about this. Patrick’s deliberately pushing Pete’s boundaries.

Pete’s not ready to cave just yet.

ϴ

The difference between Pete and Patrick lies somewhere in the word cowardice. Pete’s. Not Patrick’s.

Patrick is courageous. Pete hides. Builds walls. Writes down rules. Rants about the false religions.

If Pete would only open his mouth and say something - _anything_ \- they could tackle his issues. Find a logical solution. Not every relationship is constructed around romantic lust.

Later, he’ll regret walking away.

For now, he doesn’t realize there’s a storm cloud on the horizon. Watch for severe weather. Board up the windows. Hoard water and nonperishable foods.

ϴ

Shift wipes his hand across his mouth. Red smears his cheek. Just another night of failing to capture their arch nemesis.

CB’s limping. Scowling while Ink scans their surroundings for movement. When nothing jumps them, they slump against the brick of the alleyway.

Pete curls his aching fingers in Shifts collar. Drags him closer. Licks the blood from his mouth.

Finding a quiet moment for kissing, for sex. Has been hard to come by lately.

Pete blames the lack of sex for his wayward thoughts. When Shift drops to his knees in front of Ink, Pete has trouble enjoying the pleasure for what it is. He keeps wondering if Brendon gives just as good head as Shift does. If Patrick’s as forceful as CB can be.

Shift isn’t Brendon.

Patrick isn’t CB.

Pete doesn’t get to have everything. One of the first truths he learned.

ϴ

_Tap_

_Tap_

_Tap_

_Tap_

Shift’s fingers press down on the trigger buttons rapidly.

“If this works. We should be golden. If not, you might want to stay unplugged for a few days, Ink.”

CB rests his chin on Shift’s shoulder and whispers something in his ear. Pete watches them closely. Memorizes their movements.

They’re going on a mini-vacation together tomorrow. Won’t have vr access for three or so days.

Pete envies them.

“Where are you going?”

What he wants to ask is: _who are you? Where do you live?_

CB glances at Shift before pulling away.

“Ink, I want to ask you a question. Who are y-

ϴ

Crystine City glitches.

ϴ

The problem with glitches is they rarely, if ever, kick you out of your session.

ϴ

Pete shakes his head to stop the pounding. It doesn’t help. Never does in reality. Why should it in vr?

Sparkly boots come into focus. When did he fall? Pete doesn’t remember.

“Don’t.”

Shift’s voice is sharp.

Pete’s on his feet in a second.

Teal Tina, Frederick Fright, and a few others have made a ring around CB. Shift’s being held down by Cupcake Girl’s sugar disc.

“You know I can’t do that.”

The Matchstick Man smiles. It’s the only part of his face anyone ever sees.

Twist shoves a hand against Pete’s chest, pinning him to the bricks, keeping him still.

“Shhhhhhh. This will be all over in a second. Don’t fight.”

CB glares at the Matchstick Man. Spits on him when the circle opens for the puppeteer to enter.

We all know where this ends. Hollywood gets shit wrong every damn time. No one rides off into the sunset.

That doesn’t stop Shift and Ink from trying.

CB becomes one of the Matchstick Man’s empty drones. Shift breaks his own hand to disable Cupcake Girl’s sugar disc and Ink snaps Twist’s neck just to get free.

It’s not enough to save CB, but it gives them a chance to get away before they’re turned, as well.

When they’re safe, Ink drags Shift down to the ground. They crouch together in a shadowy corner.

“What happened to the trap box?”

Shift stares at the dirty ground, blankly. Pete shakes him.

“It’s broken. I should have known. Should have fucking _known_.”

Pete shakes his head. Thinking shit like that will only fuck them up. They have time. There’s no clock on them getting CB back.

“You don’t get it.”

No. Pete doesn’t.

He opens his mouth to ask as his session runs out.

ϴ

For three days. Patrick walks around in a haze. Pete keeps his distance. Sure he’s pissed Patrick off again.

 _Give it a few days_ his thoughts whisper _let Patrick come down a bit_. Eventually, he’ll get angry enough to yell at Pete for being a fuck up. Again.

Brendon comes and goes at all hours. Wakes Pete up after he’s gone to bed.

Brendon’s frazzled and dark circles set up camp under his eyes. He won’t talk about it when Pete asks. Just clams up and pokes at Perce erratically.

The White Rabbit forever late, late, late.

ϴ

Crystine City isn’t much better. Without CB around, Ink gets first-hand experience dealing with an untethered Shift. This version of the guy is _NOTHING_ like the one Pete got to hang around with when CB went on vacation all those months ago.

Shift mutters to himself. Pushes himself past his limits and the handicap from his broken wrist.

Pete finds himself in the position of steady rock.

He sucks at it. Shift’s hell-bent on saving CB. Right The Fuck Now. No matter the personal cost.

ϴ

_Bam_

_Bam_

_Bam_

“Petttteee.”

Pete startles awake. Tumbles out of his desk chair. Almost breaks his neck in the process.

“PETE!”

Brendon’s voice is loud but broken. Pete finds him in the bathroom. A pile of hair brushes, tooth brushes, toothpaste, and disposable razors slumped at the base of the hall wall directly across from the open bathroom door.

Stuff is scattered all across the bathroom tiles.

That explains the _Bams_.

“I called 911.”

The whisper barely catches Pete’s attention. He’s too busy dropping to his knees.

Brendon’s tugged Patrick into his lap. There’s blood from where Patrick must have slammed his head against the corner of the sink cabinet. Pete doesn’t need a medical degree to know Patrick’s not breathing.

The blood’s already flaking, dried. Patrick’s lips are blue.

ϴ

Mikey and Gabe call Pete constantly. When they’re not watching him like a hawk. Patrick’s mother offers Pete and Brendon Patrick’s room for a few days. Just until the funeral is over with.

She doesn’t know what their relationship is(was), not clearly. But she sees Brendon as her son-in-law and Pete the cynical son she never had. So, of course, she offers.

Brendon lasts three hours before he sneaks out through Patrick’s bedroom window. Pete follows him.

ϴ

Pete doesn’t plug in. Crystine City doesn’t matter in the face of this.

ϴ

Brendon yells at Patrick’s mother the day before the funeral. After Pete offhandedly mentions that it’s a Stump family tradition to be cremated.

Brendon’s adamant on a coffin burial.

He has no say.

ϴ

Pete has loved Patrick forever. It’s been his strength and his weakness.

When Pete realized his dreams could not come true. That they were nothing but ashes sitting heavily on his parched tongue. He did something about it.

Mentally said _Fuck This_ and tried to check out. Razors are _always_ easy to come by.

Patrick found him. Shook him awake. Called 911. 

He yelled at Pete until the ambulance screeched to a halt in the parking lot. Told Pete he loved him. Made him fucking promise to stay around for him.

He had Pete repeat after him, slowly.

“I, Pete Wentz, do promise on the sun and the moon, that I will not leave Patrick Stump behind. Motherfucker.”

Looks like he’ll never have a chance to break that one after all.

ϴ

After the funeral service, Patrick’s ashes go home with his mother. Brendon goes home with Pete. Locks himself in Patrick’s room.

Pete tries to go to work.

Can’t bring himself to care.

Calls in and quits, instead.

ϴ

Mikey visits. Pete doesn’t let him in. Gerard stands behind Mikey and plays the part of grief counselor from a distance.

Brendon slips out of Patrick’s room. Goes to the kitchen. Slips back into Patrick’s bedroom. A fading shadow, disintegrating with every passing day.

“How is he doing?”

Pete laughs.

“What do you care, Mikey Way?”

Gerard clenches his jaw. He’s partially hidden by Mikey’s shoulder. Doesn’t stop Pete from noticing.

“You’re hurting, Pete. It’s understandable. You don’t have to lash out at those who want to help.” 

Gerard’s voice is filled to the brim with pity. Pete wants to hit him. Thinks about stepping outside his apartment. Closing the door behind him. Taking a swing at Gerard. And another. Just keep going until Mikey understands how Pete feels. Loses what Pete’s lost.

“You can’t bring him back, can you? Huh, Mikey Way, you finally master timetravel? Could you rewind space and time so I could drag Patrick to a damn doctor instead of fucking thinking he was just mad at me? You can’t. So stop trying.”

Pete goes to slam the door in Mikey’s face, but Mikey’s quicker. He wedges his shoulder between the frame and the door.

“Pete. Don’t be stupid. Remember-”

“I promised. I know.”

Pete shoves at Mikey’s shoulder, hard. Sends him stumbling against Gerard.

The door shuts with a satisfying thud and a metallic snick when Pete locks the dead bolt.

Mikey knocks.

Pete ignores him.

ϴ

Eventually, Pete plugs in, anyway.

Crystine City isn’t the chaos he expected. Shift is running a relay. He’s manually shutting down portions of the city. Keeping players out so they don’t get hurt.

Cupcake Girl was his first conquest in reclaiming able bodies to combat their foe.

Fitting.

Shift’s running himself into the ground. He only stalls long enough for Ink to distract him. Pete tries telling him to slow down. They can get CB back. Their missing piece is still walking around.

The thought makes Pete sick. But also encourages him. Reality might be fucked. However, there’s still a chance here.

Until even that illusion is taken away from him.

ϴ

Pete plugs in earlier and earlier than he used to. Brendon drops weight and begins talking to himself.

Gabe picks Pete’s lock and leaves bags of greasy take-out on the coffee table. He’s the one who drags Brendon out of Patrick’s bedroom and shoves him under the hot shower spray.

He doesn’t hold Pete’s word over his head.

The only thing he says is _be smart. If you’re doing this. Do it for a purpose. Or grieve and move on. Call me if you need anything._

Brendon’s standing in the hallway, gripping at the towel around his waist when Gabe speaks.

Pete doesn’t think about what Brendon might take from Gabe’s words.

ϴ

Gabe’s promise wasn’t born on a day of desperation. Or during a cold night with agony nipping at Pete’s fingers.

They were playing a hand of cards alone in Gabe’s basement. Gabe folded and talked about zen. The order of things.

Had Pete promise not to be petty. If he wanted to die, let it be in the process of helping others.

Doing something for the world.

ϴ

Shift’s crying when Pete finds him. CB’s been promoted to the Matchstick Man’s second in command. Taking Cupcake Girl’s place, who is a shade of herself. She barely talks, but she’s good. Upstanding again.

“We can get him back.”

Shift wipes angrily at the tear tracks on his cheeks. Tugs his goggles down from tangling in his hair. “No we _can’t_. He’s dead. What the fuck do you think happens when _He_ takes control?”

_He_ being the Matchstick Man.

Ink stiffens. Pete shakes his head. “How would you know that? Maybe he just hasn’t called you for a few days.”

Shift laughs. He sounds broken.

“You don’t get it. Ink, I saw him die. Whatever’s left of him here is nothing more than a figment. Just like Cupcake Girl. Why do you think she barely speaks now? Everyone _He’s_ taken has died. I’ve been tracing them outside of here. Hoping to find a way to stop _Him_.”

Shift’s knees buckle. He hits the ground with a sick thump.

“No matter what I do, _He_ finds a way around. Always slips through the cracks. This is all my fault.”

Pete lowers his voice.

“Who is the Matchstick Man?”

Shift shakes his head.

“What’s CB’s name?”

Shift crab-walks backwards until he hits sheet rock. Lets his head thunk backwards against the unfinished wall.

Pete drops to a crouch.

“Maybe I’ve been going about this in the wrong way. A name for a name. Fair trade?”

When Shift lifts his head and nods weakly at Ink, Pete continues.

“I should have done this ages ago. I’m Pete. Pete Wentz.”

Shift freezes for one second then he cackles. Murmers _no, no, no_ under his breath before tossing his head back against the sheet rock again.

“He was right.” _Crack_

“Fuck.” _Crack_

“He was right.” _Crack_

“Fuck.” _Crack_

Pete winces every time Shift’s head connects with the wall.

He scoots closer, leans forward, slides a hand behind Shift’s head. Stalls his momentum.

“Shift..”

Shift giggles. Blinks up at Ink from behind his goggles. “Brendon. Pete, it’s Brendon.”

Holy. Fucking. Hell.

Pete loses balance and falls on his ass.

“Brendon....”

Brendon nods.

“Patrick’s CB?”

Brendon smiles. There’s nothing optimistic lurking in the curve of his lips.

ϴ

The Matchstick Man was never supposed to come to life. Brendon was working on a CPU character to be an unplayable opponent. He was using the digital shell of an old friend as the blueprint.

The glitches bled through the code and corrupted the file. Turned the character into something much worse. Made him into a monster who could jack players at will.

The victim becoming the assailant.

Brendon’s been dashing like a mad dog, back and forth, back and forth since the Matchstick Man was released, trying to contain him. Minimize the damage.

Suddenly, Pete understands why Shift was so adamant on trying to trap the Matchstick Man. He wanted to keep people from dying.

ϴ

“Why didn’t you fucking say _anything_?”

Pete’s hands shake. He has Brendon pinned against the kitchen wall. Brendon’s going to have finger-shaped bruises on his shoulders. Pete doesn’t care.

Wonders if he could recreate Patrick’s fingerprints on Brendon’s skin.

Brendon glares at Pete. He’s taller, but not stronger.

“I didn’t know you ran CC. We don’t talk about her on the outside.”

Pete drags Brendon off the wall. Slams him back against it. Brendon clenches his jaw but doesn’t wince.

“You knew what was happening. You could have saved him. You. Didn’t. Say. Anything.”

Pete’s beyond angry. Beyond seething. He digs his fingers into muscle and squeezes.

Brendon laughs deeply. Chokes on the bubbles of hysteria.

“What was I supposed to say, Pete? The docs can’t fix this shit. I was doing all that I could. I bled hours from idle accounts. I slept maybe three.”

Pete doesn’t want to believe Brendon tried. He wants to let his hands travel closer to Brendon’s trachea and press inward with his thumbs. Embrace the anger.

Brendon smiles. Like he knows what Pete’s thinking. Like he _wants_ to check out.

“He’s still in there, Pete. Patrick. He’s not the same. But he’s still in there. So is Ryan. He’ll keep jacking players unless you let me stop him.”

_Unless you let me die._

Pete releases Brendon’s shoulders and takes two steps back. “You couldn’t before. What’s changed now?”

Brendon laughs.

The answer is easy.

Everything has.

ϴ

The plan is to seal Crystine City off from any and all players. The problem lies in the fact that the environ is as sentient as any vr scene can be. It was created from radical ideas and experimental tech that Brendon and his friends developed during high school.

It means, Brendon has to set up the disconnects from the inside as well as the outside.

That’s not the only challenge.

They also have to get Patrick away from Ryan. Brendon’s been threading code after code together. Building a Frankenstein's Bride for what’s left of the ghost of his old friend.

Ryan’s best friend stepped in front of a metro bus by accident after Ryan’s death. Brendon’s using his likeness. His traits. To piece together a new second in command for the Matchstick Man.

If they succeed there. All that’s left is sealing off the last portal. The one they plug in with.

_They_ because Pete’s floundering without Patrick, and to be honest, Brendon’s important to him. If Brendon thinks they have a chance of having some piece of Patrick back, Pete’s going to latch onto that instantly. Follow Brendon down the rabbit hole.

What’s left for them here?

Nothing.

ϴ

This is why Brendon didn’t want Patrick’s body cremated:

He foolishly thought he could fix the terminating equation. Shove The Matchstick Man into a box and get Patrick back.

It was nothing more than a pipe dream. Didn’t stop Brendon from trying until the choice was taken from him.

He whispers those thoughts against Pete’s neck. Holds on tightly to Pete’s shoulders.

Clings.

ϴ

Big, blocky letters start snaking their way lazily across Pete’s bare walls. All of Patrick’s picture frames have been broken. They sit in a pile in the center of the living room. Occasionally, Brendon selects a slim shard of glass from the collection before retreating to the bathroom. Slamming the door behind him. Locking it.

Pete doesn’t stop him.

Doesn’t think he could even if he wanted to.

ϴ

“It’ll work?” Pete’s voice is a whisper. He rarely speaks loudly anymore.

Neither does Brendon.

Their words have shrunk as the written ones on the walls grow larger. Thicker.

“Yes. We isolate the contagion. Dangle _i_ in front of Ryan and snatch CB. I don’t know how much he’ll remember, but Shift and Ink should be important to him. It’ll turn into a never-ending struggle. Us against the Matchstick Man and i. The only support we’ll have is from the other ghosts.”

Brendon’s calculations postulate that all vr have become living and breathing. Not like humans. Just enough to protect their existence. The underground vr weaves in and out of the sanitized vr environs. There’s no way to just pull the plug.

So, they have to cut off the entrances and exists. Turn Crystine City into an island.

He’s betting on the general concept that once snapped from the Matchstick Man’s control, Patrick(CB) will revert back to his hero status. Much like Cupcake Girl did.

Without a body, they can’t bring him back.

Pete imagines Mikey doesn’t expect Pete to warp his word like this.

Pete doesn’t care.

ϴ

“Let’s go out.”

Brendon rubs at his eyes. His hair’s messy, and he hasn’t slept much. He sleeps less than Pete. Only sheer determination keeps him from checking out for good.

“I have work to do.”

It’s not a lie.

“And so do I. You said we need meds to keep us under longer. Gabe likes you. We can use that to get double what I could alone.”

Brendon nods. Yawns. Rubs at his eyes again.

“Yeah, okay. I’ll work on i’s finishing touches when we get back.”

_i_ for imaginary. Mathematics for those who don’t know.

ϴ

Gabe doesn’t smile when he opens his front door to Pete and Brendon standing on his top step.

“Mierda, what have you two been eating? Sawdust?”

Pete feels caught off-guard. Gabe always smiles. But then again. Brendon used to.

He doesn’t anymore.

ϴ

They stay longer than Pete likes. Gabe plies them with food and laces their drinks with something calming.

Brendon wants to argue but doesn’t fight the drug. Lets himself melt against Pete’s side. They sleep.

Pete wakes to lips on his neck. Teeth grazing moist skin. There’s no masking the fact that Brendon’s already awake.

Mikey used to play at this game. Touch where he was allowed with the purpose of sneaking others.

Brendon keeps his hands to himself. Moves his mouth to Pete’s shoulder. Bites down. Through Pete’s shirt.

Fuck.

Pete’s turned on.

Brendon doesn’t know Pete’s rules. Not unless Patrick told him.

Unlikely.

_‘cough’_

_‘cough’_

_‘cough’_

Pete blinks to focus his eyes. Gabe’s sitting in his favorite chair. Long-ass legs crossed. The spider pondering the mysteries of the universe.

“You could stay. Mi casa and all that mierda.”

Gabe means it. He’d let Pete stay forever if that’s what Pete wanted. Double for Brendon, who seems to make everyone love him.

Made Pete love him just by being around.

If they stayed, Gabe would feed them pharmaceuticals. Bleed them of their grief. Brendon’s guilt. Pete’s anger.

It would be a cloud of distance. Obscuring reality.

Brendon pulls away. Clenches his fists. Digs his knuckles into his thighs.

“Thank you. But I can’t.”

_We can’t._

ϴ

Gabe pulls Pete into a hug that lasts a small ice age. Gabe’s never been a stupid man. He might not know the details, but he’s figured out part of the plan. Pete can tell.

This is goodbye.

It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. 

Pete doesn’t know why it bothers him. He’s been imagining death since he understood the implications of the _long sleep_.

Staying in reality isn’t an option.

They leave with a box full of mellowers, several vials of sky juice, and random shit Gabe threw in just because he could.

ϴ

Pete hasn’t seen his bedroom in days. Weeks. Maybe. He’s lost track of time.

Always in Patrick’s room with Brendon.

Planning

planning

planning.

He’s been wearing Patrick’s clothing. They hang wrong on him. Not as badly as they do on Brendon, who looks like a frail child trying on an older sibling’s clothing.

ϴ

They hit a snag.

ϴ

Brendon works on the tangle of code in the real world. Shift does the same in Crystine City.

Pete’s a terrible handler. He barely remembers to eat, let alone press Brendon to choke down bland shit himself.

ϴ

“Fuck. Please, baby. Bend for me. Plea...fuckkkkk...come on...come on. Thank you.”

Pete rests his hands on Patrick’s computer desk. Waits for Brendon’s prognosis.

“Two days.”

Brendon smiles up at him.

A real _smile_.

One of the millions he used to shuffle through before Patrick died. 

“Two fucking days, and we’re home safe. Together again.” Brendon sounds awed. The Faith Junkie praising Jesus. Praying to be taken to the shining palace in the clouds.

Pete turns to stare at Patrick’s computer screen. A multitude of colored dots speed by. The chromatic version of the old star screensaver that’s never gone out of style.

Brendon won’t take Patrick’s desk. He’s the one doing most of the work while Pete juggles whatever shit Brendon asks of him. Brendon should be the one using Patrick’s desk, his computer.

He won’t touch either. Leaves that up to Pete. Stays in the floor practically glued to his laptop.

Warm fingers slide across Pete’s knees drawing his attention downward.

Brendon’s shuffled away from his laptop. Resting his ass on the backs of his calves. Touching Pete where he shouldn’t.

Patrick never told him.

Brendon respects rules. Does what he’s told.

“Brendon...”

Pete’s voice is weak, and he’s trying to keep his muscles untensed. Resist the urge to jerk away.

Brendon rests his head on Pete’s thigh. Mouths _Soon_ happily against Patrick’s jeans.

Pete wonders if these are a pair Patrick wore often around Brendon.

“Pete. Please. I need.”

Brendon looks up at him. He’s very much a dude.

Pete can’t do this. Shakes his head and carefully, slowly, removes Brendon’s fingers from his knees.

“We can’t.”

Not. _I can’t_.

Brendon shifts his gaze to Patrick’s bedroom door. Nods shakily. Swallows. Goes back to his computer screen.

ϴ

Assumptions could be made. Hypotheses postulated. Brendon was Patrick’s idea of a chain link connecting the three of them together.

Pete and Patrick are the constant. Brendon the new stimuli added to the experiment.

In Crystine City. He’s Shift. The glue between Ink and CB.

So it’s natural to causally say that he was to be the buffer in reality.

It’s the wrong answer penciled into the equation. Someone’s not showing their work correctly.

Patrick was the neutron in the center of the atom. The tape holding them together.

Not just Pete and Brendon. But Pete’s connection to everyone he considers close.

Patrick’s mom. Who was always a better parent to him than his own ever were.

Gabe, the guy Pete found in his quest to forget.

Mikey, the person Pete hid from Patrick with.

It always comes back to Patrick. 

Who isn’t here.

ϴ

Two days turns into five.

Time trickles by in reality. Fucking vanishes in Crystine City.

The storm obscures the stars. Rain pounds the ground. Mud covers everything.

Pete’s finally getting his wish.

ϴ

There’s only so many hours they can stay plugged in. Even with Brendon bypassing the session controls. Locking out all the other maintainers. Making it look like even more glitches.

They can’t stay for good. Not yet.

Things have to be set up just right first.

Each time Pete blinks awake in reality he feels less and less connected. A balloon longing to kiss the

blue,

blue,

blue sky.

The thin length of a secured ribbon the only thing keeping him from floating away.

ϴ

During normal circumstances, sky juice is a kick in the ass. Pete has resorted to abusing it to keep from drifting away when he’s booted from Crystine City.

Brendon drops his vr glasses. Scoots away from his laptop. Pulls his knees to his chest and rests his head on one knee.

He seems _so_ impossibly young at this moment. Young and stupid. Like Pete used to be.

If Pete was one of the masses, he’d be trying to talk Brendon out of this suicide pact.

As it is, he’s not a carbon copy of Everyday Joe Blow.

Misery enjoys the company. All that bullshit.

Pete slides down Patrick’s desk chair and knee-walks the tiny distance from Patrick’s desk to where Brendon’s sitting.

He’s already high as a kite.

“Here.”

Brendon rubs his forehead against the baggy pair of Patrick’s jeans he’s wearing. Looks up at Pete. Gently takes the medicine dropper and vial from Pete’s outstretched hand.

ϴ

Tripping on sky juice can get freaky. The less you sleep, the harder the punch.

ϴ

“You fuck, right?” Brendon’s voice is moist against Pete’s lips.

They’ve been kissing for what feels like an eternity. Mouths bruised and red. The sensation is good.

Not perfect. Can never be perfect. Where there should be three, only two sit.

There’s the regret Pete was talking about.

“Patrick said-”

Pete can’t have this conversation. Won’t. Nods before kissing Brendon again.

It’s a bad idea.

Pete pushes Brendon backwards. Presses him to the floor. Stays clear of Brendon’s dick.

Bad choices and Pete go hand in hand. He follows through.

ϴ

They fuck. It’s nothing like it was in Crystine City.

Patrick’s bed is off-limits. Brendon is vocal. He begs but doesn’t ask Pete to move his grip from Brendon’s hips.

_‘harder’_

_‘please’_

_‘fuck’_

They’re coming down from the high -and the endorphins- when Brendon crawls out from under Pete and reaches for his clothes. He’s dressed and out Patrick’s door before Pete can process the movement.

ϴ

Patrick’s computer has file after file of music. Pete finds himself clicking through tracks to pass the time until he plugs back in.

The itch to go under is intense. Pete idly wonders if this is what those who jack themselves felt just before that final plunge. That last true breath. That final clear thought before it was all wiped from their slate.

Brendon stays gone for hours longer than he should.

ϴ

The picture file is hidden. Pete was never supposed to find it.

Patrick glares at him. Brim of his hat enhancing the expression. Pete remembers that day. Doesn’t want to.

It was right before Patrick left. Pete stole Patrick’s new phone and snapped photo after photo. After photo.

Each pixelated picture is an ode to them. Brendon peppers in at first, until the whole file is a combination of just their faces. Together and separate. All three of them.

Patrick was always sentimental. Would pretend he wasn’t.

Pete scrubs a hand across his face. His chin is stubbly. He should shave.

What’s the point?

By this time tomorrow nothing outside of Crystine City will matter.

ϴ

“What the fuck are you doing?”

Mikey’s at Pete’s door again. He’s alone this time.

Thank God for small favors.

“Mikey Way, why are you here? Come to extract more of my pride from me?”

Pete knows he’s a disaster. Wasn’t expecting company. Everyone leaves him alone now. Even Patrick’s mom.

He’s still smarting after that one. Can’t bring himself to think beyond the goal ahead.

Get CB back.

Let go of reality.

Embrace his freedom and the knowledge that he’ll never be alone ever again.

“Where’s Brendon?”

_Always with the questions, Mikey._

Pete shakes his head. Grits his teeth. Brendon’s been gone too long. Too fucking long.

“Why?”

Mikey narrows his eyes at Pete.

“Really? Pete, you’re asking that? Gabe might be okay with this shit.”

_I’m not._

It doesn’t matter.

Pete laughs. Mikey flinches at the sound.

“Relax. I’m not reneging.”

“No. You’ve found the loophole.”

_You’re a bad person for exploiting it._

_Found_ implies that Pete only figured that shit out recently. He’s not a moron. He knew the moment he promised how to get around his own words.

He laughs again. There’s not a damn thing funny.

“You’re using Brendon’s emotions against him. Pete, are you really _that_ low that you’d take someone down with you?”

Mikey Way and his worldview. It’s always Pete’s fault.

“Wasn’t his idea. We’re busy. Go away.” Brendon’s voice is strong. Steel that doesn’t bend.

Pete curls his fingers into his palms and digs in with his fingernails.

Brendon’s hair is green. The shade is surreal. Dirty looking. Unnatural.

He’s dressed in new clothing. Tight black jeans that still find ways to hang off of his frame. Silver chains are clipped to the belt loops. Black boots. Red collared shirt with a black, silver-buttoned vest. 

The black rimmed glasses aren’t Shift’s goggles. They’re close enough.

Reality imitating fiction.

Brendon hefts the department store bag in his hand and uses the momentum to shove past Mikey.

“Brendon, you don’t know what you’re doing.”

Mikey touches Brendon’s shoulder. To ground him. Remind him of reality. Of living.

It doesn’t work.

Brendon doesn’t owe Mikey anything. They have no ties to each other.

“Don’t. I haven’t been a child since I was fifteen. I _do_ know what I’m doing, and I’m fine with it.”

Mikey rolls his shoulders. Doesn’t turn and walk away.

Brendon takes the choice to speak away from him by dragging Pete back into his apartment. Shutting and locking the door behind them.

ϴ

Pete and Brendon aren’t so different. Not in the ways that matter.

Patrick kept Brendon centered. It’s why they fucked A LOT when the Matchstick Man began his hostile takeover.

To Brendon, sex was never a quick fix. It was natural and good for clearing his head. He’d find someone solid he could love. Someone who could ground him. Then that person became his foundation.

His home.

Pete has his promises. Brendon has people. It’s still the same concept. The hemp rope keeping the horse from bolting.

He’s got scars from the in-between times -they’re not copies of the ones Pete wears on his wrists- the dots on the scatter plot of life from when he was alone. Only his own thoughts to keep him company.

Like Pete, Brendon has conviction. Does what should be done. Follows through.

Without Patrick, he’s adrift. The clusterfuck in Crystine City must be contained. Brendon considers himself responsible. He’s the one who has to clean up his own messes.

The only course of action is forward. It’s not about grief. Nor guilt. It just _is_ reality.

If Patrick’s the prize at the bottom of the cereal box, then what difference does that make?

None.

Or, maybe, it means _all_ the difference in the whole wide world.

Pete doesn’t think about which is correct.

ϴ

“You don’t have to do this.” Pete shocks himself by speaking.

Brendon sets the department store bag on the edge of Patrick’s bed. “There’s black in your closet, right?”

When Pete nods, Brendon leaves, silently. Returns five minutes later with a pair of worn black jeans and a threadbare long sleeve black shirt. He drops both down next to the bag.

“Change. I’ll be right back.”

Brendon grabs his messenger bag on his way out.

ϴ

Pete undresses slowly. Shedding Patrick’s clothes feels wrong. Like Pete is losing Patrick all over again.

His jeans slide on easily. As does the shirt. Pete’s not stupid. He knows what this is.

He’s becoming his Crystine City alter. Brendon left and came back as Shift -the steampunk hero inventor. Now, it’s Pete’s turn to _change_. To become Ink -the black puddle morphing anti-hero.

There’s a leather jacket settled at the bottom of the bag. Red stitching travels up the sleeves. A pair of matching black gloves fall to the floor when Pete drags the jacket out.

Brendon’s a little off on the sizing. The jacket still fits. Pete shrugs out of the leather. Unsnaps the wrist cuff he wears around his right wrist. Lets the faux leather drop to the floor with a soft _thump_.

Even sound is beginning to relate to Crystine City. There’s no going back. The point of no(know?) return.

Pete traces the old scar. Remembers how young and scared Patrick was that night. How Pete wasn’t the only one to give his word.

Patrick promised he’d find a way to make things(them) work. He never stopped trying. Sure, he took a break in the middle of the story, but that doesn’t matter.

Pete thought Shift and CB were going on a mini-vacation alone.

They weren’t.

Patrick’s plan was to spring a road trip on Pete at the last minute. Have him call in to the office and take a few days vacation pay. It’s not like Pete ever used any of the accrued hours anyway.

They were going to talk. Figure shit out. The three of them.

Together.

Patrick was keeping his promise. It’s time Pete paid up and kept his.

_“I, Pete Wentz, do promise on the sun and the moon, that I will not leave Patrick Stump behind. Motherfucker.”_

ϴ

Brendon comes back with a glass of water. “I didn’t think you’d want a mask. No more guilt, okay? This is what I want. If...if you want to back out. That’s fine.”

_It’s not fine_

His voice cracks at the end.

Pete shakes his head. Just one more step to take. That last bit of cliff-edge left.

He divides the remaining mellowers. Hands half to Brendon. Watches him down them with three gulps of water. Takes the half-empty glass when it’s handed to him. Pops the rest of the pills like they’re candy. Drains the glass. Sits at Patrick’s computer desk and slips the vr glasses on.

They plug in for the last time.

ϴ

The night Pete promised Mikey was cold. The heat in his first apartment was shitty. They were experimenting with a combo of drugs.

Strike that. Pete was experimenting. Mikey was calling him a dumb ass over the phone while tripping on Shirley Swill.

-Good shit. Rare to find unpolluted. But as good as spun gold if you got a taste of the pure shit-

This was several weeks after their final fight. The one where they ended the war. Signed the treaty. Became friends. Not boyfriends.

Mikey broke into Pete’s apartment not even an hour after the phone call. Yelled at him. Kept him away from the rest of his _happy_ pills.

Pete found himself agreeing to not kill himself because he was alone. The promise was a moot point. Alone or not, there is(was) always Patrick and Pete’s promise to him.

Accidents happen, though. Pete will admit to not caring if that occurred during his cocktail mixing.

ϴ

i is a mimic. Brendon did his best to give the CPU character breath. He’s still lifeless. The Matchstick Man doesn’t know this. Doesn’t care if he does.

Ink and Shift are at a standoff after hours of searching. Hours of letting the word slip through all of Crystine City. Letting the rest of the ghosts pass the word along.

_They want to trade like for like._

The Matchstick Man. His recruits behind him. CB at his right. Teal Tina at his left. Stand on one side of the line.

Shift and Ink with i held between them. Cupcake Girl and a respawned Twist behind them a few steps.

Savy C and his crew of three hiding in the shadows. A safety precaution. On the other.

“A fair trade.” Ink’s voice is cold.

It’s ice.

“You remember i, don’t you? I told you I’d find him, M M. i for CB.” Shift’s free hand traces up and down the cable chains he carries snapped to his belt. The picture of calm, soothing, ease.

There’s no battle. No bloody carnage. The Matchstick Man signals CB forward. Presses two fingers against his temple before shoving him forward.

“Deal.”

Ink releases his hold on i and pushes him toward the Matchstick Man when Shift lets go.

CB stumbles. Glares when Shift and Ink drop to help him up.

“What are you doing?”

Now that he knows, Pete can see the threads of Patrick in CB. The faint after-image that isn’t anymore. CB isn’t as substantial as he was.

Ink doesn’t care.

Neither does Shift.

Brendon breathes, deeply. Almost cracks. Tangles his fingers in his chains. Becomes Shift again, and says "saving you. Wanna get back in the game with us?"

That’s when the blood starts to flow.

ϴ

No one wins. Both sides are evenly matched. The battle is called a draw. Back to your corners. Wait for the next round. Listen for the bell.

It’s exactly as they expected. More predictable than reality.

Ink feels the snap of his session ending come and go. Brendon couldn’t splice several sessions together. It’s why they needed the mellowers. To keep their minds too relaxed to wake. Keep them plugged in past the kick.

Get themselves jacked the old-fashioned way.

Shift presses a keypad. A bridge in the distance explodes. It’s a visual cue that the city is officially cut off from the outside.

Ink doesn’t know if he’s slipping. Can’t comprehend much of anything outside of the here and now.

There’s something he’s forgetting(forgotten?).

He’ll think about it later. They have plans to make. A war to win.

“We’re predictable.” Shift smiles, brightly.

CB snorts. “Another rooftop. You’d think they’d all be populated by brooding superheroes by now.”

Ink grins from behind his mask. “Not this one. It’s ours.”

Shift pulls them into a group hug.

“Damn straight.”

ϴ

In reality, the world continues spinning. Mikey never stops blaming Pete for all the tiny, little things that went wrong. Gabe mourns but moves on. Thinks about Pete on cloudy days. Brendon on days too bright to see properly without squinting.

Events that come and go but never stay for long.

The apartment superintendent paints over Pete’s words. Occasionally, the patches of white are too thin, and the black letters bleed through. The new residents hang pictures over the reminders of the past.

It’s a cover-up. Never completely wiping the past from memory. 

In Crystine City, CB, Ink, and Shift fight against the Matchstick Man and i. It’s a loop of wins and losses. Through it all, they’re together.

Gloriously together.

Forever and ever.

Amen.

ϴ

Pete is dead. But Ink lives.

Stains everything.

Leaves Its mark.

Nothing washes It away.

**Author's Note:**

> Title inspired by "Van Helsing Boombox" by Man Man.


End file.
